


Affinity & Agony

by plague of insomnia (chiealeman)



Series: Drabbles [7]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, Implied Sebaciel, Kuroshitsuji: Book of the Atlantic, Pain, Post Sinking of the Campania, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiealeman/pseuds/plague%20of%20insomnia
Summary: Adrift in the Atlantic in a lifeboat after the sinking of the Campania, Sebastian submits to his injury at last, contemplating the fate of both himself and his master.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis & Ciel Phantomhive
Series: Drabbles [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1411822
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102





	Affinity & Agony

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this work quickly one day when I was in extreme pain from my chronic illness, inspired by a picture on Tumblr of Sebastian and Ciel in the lifeboat after the Campania sinks.
> 
> (See it here: https://tmblr.co/ZBjuvw2kN4zEn)
> 
> The moment when Sebastian is hurt and all that follows is one of my favorite parts of the entire series (manga and anime), and I've always wanted to write something about it. So here it is.

With every wave that rocked the lifeboat, pain surged up Sebastian’s spine like a burn searing through his human form to his core, as if the very blackness of his being were being shredded. The wound pulsed within him as his essence struggled and failed to knit itself back together.

Over and over and over.

It was as if Undertaker had held his scythe blade over a roaring fire until it glowed red like Sebastian’s eyes before driving it through him.

He coughed and tasted iron and soot and sulphur, his blood mimicking that which flowed in humans’ veins in appearance only. He breathed in short, sharp pants, every movement of his chest aggravating his wound and reigniting the burning pain that felt as if it were growing, expanding and devouring his essence. He pressed his head back against the damp wooden floor of the boat, lids falling shut, gasping, knowing it was wrong—_ dangerous _ —to show weakness to anyone, even his contractor— _ especially _ his contractor—but unable to fight through the pain any longer. The battle with the remaining undead had stolen the last of his reserves as agony threatened to consume him entirely.

Not needing to respire in the same way humans did, he abandoned the farce of breathing entirely, eyes rolling back, beginning to feel himself sink into a state that resembled death to humans and yet was more equivalent to a restorative sleep.

“—bas—bastian—Sebastian!” his contractor called desperately, shaking him enough it served to tear at his wound and rekindle the fire in his chest.

Weakly, his eyes opened, roving up to Ciel’s.

The boy was pale and shivering, face a portrait of concern. He clutched Sebastian’s wool tailcoat around his small body in a desperate attempt to stay warm.

Sebastian was failing his obligation, his pride and body shattered as the two of them remained adrift, alone, in the middle of the Atlantic.

“You’re so cold and you weren’t moving or breathing. I thought you were dead,” Ciel said through chattering teeth.

Sebastian wondered if, perhaps, he _ was _ dying. He’d been wounded by death scythes before, but only to his periphery. Never a direct assault on his core, the focus of his life force, his “heart,” to use human terms. Undertaker was clearly more powerful than his younger brethren; perhaps his scythe had a magic the others did not. Perhaps, like paper discarded in a fire, his wound would spread and burn and devour until nothing of his blackened soul remained.

“You’ll be all right, Sebastian.” Whether Ciel had intended it as a question or a seemingly out of character consolation, the demon couldn’t be certain.

Still, he felt compelled to reply. He didn’t wish to reveal more weakness and failure, yet he had promised not to lie to his contractor. “I have never sustained an injury such as this before,” he replied at last, shutting his eyes again.

The boat jostled, and a moment later a small form pressed itself beside him, tiny fingers curling in the fabric of his waistcoat.

“Young master?”

“You’re too cold. We’ll stay warmer this way.”

Sebastian thought to remind Ciel that he wasn’t human and did not need to regulate his temperature in the same way, but instead he said, “My lord, you mustn’t lie in the damp like this; I can offer you no body warmth in my current state. You’ll catch your death.”

“Shut up!” Ciel shouted, his voice too close and too loud to the demon’s sensitive ears. “I give the orders.” The authority of his tone was dimmed by the chattering of his teeth. “And I order you not to die. Do you hear me? Sebastian? You promised you would be with me until the end.”

Sebastian’s lips curled into a predatory smile. He wondered idly if he were to devour Ciel’s soul now if it would fix the scorching injury, alleviating his pain. And what if it didn’t? A meal wasted, and then he would either die alone or be forced to return to Hell and resume the cycle of boredom that had plagued him for centuries.

Perhaps if he relinquished the tight hold on his human form he might release more energy for healing. It would likely be hours before they drifted toward a rescue vessel. It would do no harm.

Relaxing, Sebastian allowed himself to sink into a hybrid between his human and true forms, shadowy tendrils winding protectively around his contractor, who shivered but did not complain—perhaps he was asleep. He energized his inky coils with just enough warmth to help shield Ciel from the cold. Even if his body could not provide, he was of Hell and inclined toward heat in his native state. It was the least he could do as a butler, after all.

He wasn’t certain what Undertaker had planned for Ciel. Sebastian had grossly underestimated him. Never again. Ciel was _ his _ young master, and no death god—however powerful—had the right to steal away a contracted soul.

But Sebastian’s death would void the contract. If Undertaker’s goal was to liberate Ciel’s soul, why didn’t he kill Sebastian back on the Campania? Certainly a being as powerful as the shinigami could easily have rescued Ciel from the sinking ship.

So, as great an agony as Sebastian felt now, Undertaker must not want him dead.

Yet.

Much was uncertain, but one thing Sebastian knew without doubt: Undertaker was not done with either of them.

Sebastian had never cared much about the fate of his contractors—he certainly would never have risked his own life for them, aesthetic or not. If they died, he’d consume them, simple as that.

Ciel was different. The thought of anyone else killing the boy enraged him, and it had nothing to do with the stipulations of the contract. When the time came, it would be _ his _ talons that ripped into Ciel to excavate his soul. _ He _would inhale its rich aroma and savor its orgasmic taste as it slid down his throat.

But for that to happen, Sebastian had to ensure both he and his master survived their current ordeal and that he was prepared for when he and the reaper met again.

He would shelve his hubris, if needs must. For he would not, could not lose such a unique and carefully cultivated meal.

Ciel’s soul was _ his _, by covenant, by right. And when the time came, Sebastian would be the one to claim it.

**Author's Note:**

> I love kudos, comments, and asks—let me know what you liked the most, what surprised you, and if you would like to see more canon-adjacent fics from me!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @plague-of-insomnia


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